Clap your hands if you hate your boss!
by castielapplepie
Summary: UsUk. Alfred hates his boss- he is rude, arrogant and uptight. But while trying to survive his hellish workdays, he is soon found in yet another predicament: said boss may or may not be a completely different person outside workgrounds. Stay close and find out! (Other pairings will occur, there will be lemon and swearing in the later chapters...)


**Prologue**

**A slight suspicion**

**"Never judge a book by its covers..."**

_I can't stand it anymore._

His head met the desk. **Once. Twice. Thrice. **_He is trying to kill me__**. **_**Once. Twice. Thrice**. _Today I'm gonna quit it._ **Once. Twice. Thri-**

"Are you done waltzing with your desk, Jones?" said Jones raised his head to glare at the other man. Francis Bonnefoy was giving him a pitiful look. "Mr. Kirkland called you to his office," he continued running a hand through his hair.

"Tell him that I'm on my way," he stood up slowly obviously tired_. I don't wanna see him, though._ He fixed his glasses.

"Bien sûr!* " The other smiled strangely. Ah, I almost forgot," he paused. "He also said to _bloody pick up your phone_ when he calls it," he mimicked the Brit's voice and left the office.

_Well, of course_. He rolled his eyes in annoyance. Mister Kirkland my ass! He is a tight asshole, that's all to it. The bastard is not at all a mister. Alfred stomped outside his office mentally badmouthing his boss.

Alfred F. Jones was the unhappy and unlucky secretary of the infamous Arthur Kirkland. Alfred was a 21 years old man, with dusty blonde hair, which normally looked smooth, except one strand that stubbornly stuck up making him look wilder. He had big sky blue eyes and wore glasses. He was tall and rather muscular, but despite all this he had a rather childish face.

**KNOCK. KNOCK.**

"Yes?" the answer came from the other side of the door. Damn that British accent. As for his boss, Alfred despised the man. He was always grumpy and stuck up.

"It's Jones," he said and put up a fake smile. There was no way he would let his boss know how much he affected him. Alfred wasn't the type to give up easily. He was a hero after all, no matter what he did or who he met. So he still stuck around that company, Kirkland Enterprises, hoping that his heroic self would help Kirkland 'get rid of the carrot that was stubbornly stuck in his butt', as Alfred said.

"You may come in," Arthur said and Alfred opened the door. Arthur Kirkland, The Eyebrows Terrorist, as Alfred called him was a 28 years old man, with messy short blond hair, cat-like lime-green eyes and bushy black eyebrows, the reason Alfred called him that. He was about a few centimeters smaller than the American, and he was rather slender. Despite all this, his personality was something Alfred couldn't cope with. He was mean, short-tempered, on short: 'old fashioned'.

The British man was fixing him with a rather intense stare. This is going to be a long day...

"One more scotch, please!" he slammed the glass on the counter. Alfred wasn't drunk. He hardly got drunk, but he was depressed as hell. Damn him and his stupid ideas.

"You look awful," Scott, the bartender, said giving him another scotch. "Is it because of my sweet little brother?" Alfred nodded.

Alistair Scott Kirkland, the bartender at Pub&Go, was that man's big brother. Scott, as the American liked to call him, was as tall as Alfred, had short messy auburn hair, forest green eyes and less bushy red eyebrows. He had an earring on his left ear. His body wasn't as slender as his brother's, but it couldn't be compared to Alfred's. As for his personality, from what Alfred knew, he was a cool guy, totally 'non-frigid'. And so the young American wondered how could Eyebrows Terrorist be such a pain in the ass with a cool brother like him?

"You have no idea," he puffed. "Today he scolded me for not answering my phone! But I tried to make him understand that its battery died," the blonde explained in a helpless voice. "Why's he such a frigid bastard?"

"Who knows?" Scott shrugged. "You know what? I think you should come to Gilbert's tomorrow at 5PM," he suddenly said lighting his cigarette.

"I can't! If I don't go to work the Terrorist is going to kill me..." he almost shouted. "Wait. Tomorrow's Saturday. Uhh..." that was so embarrassing. Scott snickered and patted his shoulder. "Of course I'll come. Thanks, man," he finished the scotch, left some money on the counter and left the building.

"Bring a mask...and a sexy suit!" he wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully and waved him goodbye.

_At least I don't have to see his ugly face tomorrow._

The sunlight entered through the big window of his flat waking him up from his peaceful sleep. We all know New York is a big interesting city. The sun was slowly rising from behind the tall glass buildings, painting the city in red, orange and yellow. The streets were already cramped and among the silver, black, blue or red cars, there were the yellow cabs, quite popular in New York. What a traffic jam for a Saturday morning! It seems that New York never sleeps.

He rubbed his eyes trying to clear his vision. Damn. He needed his glasses. Blindly, his fingertips brushed across the nightstand so he would find them. Ah! Evrika! He put them on and blinked a few time. What a beautiful morning! What an amazing city! Yawning, he stretched his back...and looked around.

His room was a brilliant mess, if anyone could call mess 'brilliant', but Jones would. Jones was a neat guy, of course, he spent hours ironing his shirts and polishing his shoes, but apart from that he was as careless and messy as a teenager. When he wasn't at work, he dressed in baggy jeans and huge T-shirts completed by a hoodie and a pair of sneakers with mismatching untied shoelaces. That was Alfred F. Jones for you, the secretary of a very British grumpy man, who vandalized walls, pulled pranks on strangers and swore a lot accompanied by other five guys with same attitude, in his free time. Alfred loved having fun; therefore he could never understand Kirkland.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was a German man in his late twenties, tall and well-built, his appearance resembling one of a soldier. Only that Gilbert wasn't a soldier. He was all muscles and he could be very harsh at times, but he was, most of the time, a narcissistic bastard who adored pestering his Austrian neighbour. Gilbert had spiky white locks and his skin was porcelain white. But what made him stand out even more were the crimson blood orbs that gleamed with amusement almost always.

Gilbert was rich. Ludwig, his brother, was working in the army. Gilbert owned a guitar shop and he was doing pretty well himself. The German brothers lived together in a luxurious apartment complex at a high floor, having a great deal of the city under their feet. If they were to be honest, though, they would have liked to live in a manor and not in a flat...

Alfred, Gilbert and Matthias Køhler were the most narcissistic, sassiest and most evil trio ever and they've known each other since high school days. Since then, the three of them would destroy a little of New York every night and every free day. Alfred grinned as the memories of his teenage days replayed in his mind. A great party with his friends was all he needed to forget about his work. Yeah.

His phone started to buzz on the nightstand. "Yeah?" he asked in a sleepy voice as he yawned.

_"My awesome self heard you're coming to my awesome party today, ja_*?" strong German accent pealed. Alfred rolled his eyes and chuckled. _"Tonight we'll have a masquerade ball at Elizaveta," _he continued and Alfred could help but frown in confusion. Masquerade ball? At Elizaveta's_? "Hey, Alfred...you zhere anymore?"_

"Dude, you nuts? Of all people, you wanna hang out at _her _place? Didn't you hate her or...wait. Didn't you have a crush on her?" he paused to think. "Uhh…I don't know anymore. Anyway, are you sure?"

_"Truth is...zhe awesome me lost a bet. And I am forced to go to her birthday party_," Gilbert sounded embarrassed. Poor idiot. _"But it'll be fun_," he reassured me although he didn't really know what to think. _"There'll be many people and maybe you'll find a hot babe," _I could already imagine him all grins and winking. Poor Gilbert!

"Yeah, that sounds awesome."

_"Right? Oh, gotta go. Roderich is playing his verdammt piano again and I really need to make him stop!"_ he hung up and Alfred couldn't help but sigh.

_Why do I have a bad feeling about it?_

**To be continued…**


End file.
